


Ratigan's Mice

by Luna_Bass



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Basil is dumb in this AU, Cats eating people, Drama, Drug Mentions, F/M, Friendship, Not for the squeamish, Organized Crime, Ratigan is a schemey schemer of schemes, Ratigan is super scary, Women Disguised As Men, au in general, blood and death, but fun if you're not, criminal mouse bros, human (mouse?) trafficking mentions, illegal stuff, prostitution mentions, protagonist is not a good person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 15:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11671959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Bass/pseuds/Luna_Bass
Summary: Cecil Burns is a criminal, a swordsmouse, a hired thug - and now, he's been press-ganged into the service of the Napoleon of Crime. At first, all seems well - he makes new friends, more money, and seems to be gaining a reputation at last. But Cecil has a secret he's desperate to keep under wraps, and Ratigan has a far-reaching plan that may bring him back into contact with his estranged family.





	1. Chapter 1

**This takes place in an AU where the movie never happened, and Basil and Ratigan are still in an ongoing feud.**

**I can't keep the names and descriptions of any of Ratigan's henchmen straight, so I made up a bunch of OCs to replace the originals. Please forgive me.**

_Volume I: Cecil the Swordsmouse_

Gareth moved with quietness and discretion. Silently, the tough mice assigned to help him in his task followed close behind him.

The crime lord whose house they were about to invade was in debt to Professor Ratigan. He was late on paying it back. Tonight, they would make him an example of what happened to those who didn't pay their debts to the Napoleon of crime.

Gareth snuck under a window and peeked in. He wrinkled his snout in disgust at the sight of Master Black, as he was called, with a "woman of the profession." Master Black was one of the fattest, greasiest mice he'd ever seen – you could grease a frying pan with him, and the mere thought of him being with anyone made him want to gag. Gareth motioned his men over. He signaled for them to ready themselves. He held up three fingers and started counting down. _Three, Two, One_ –

They leaped up and crashed through the window - Gareth first, followed by his two deputies, Max and Morgan. The rest of the hit mice followed, wielding revolvers.

The crime lord squealed like a little girl – the prostitute fled from the room. Black would've been killed instantly, if he hadn't ducked under his desk and called for his guards.

Apparently, he'd been expecting something like this – about twenty mice with weapons rushed into the room, ready for a fight. Gareth sneered at their inferior weapons – Professor Ratigan clearly paid his mice the best, out of all the rodent crime lords in London.

The henchmen all jumped into the fray, and the room was filled with smoke from the barrels of revolvers, loud gunshots, and – the clang of swords?

Gareth spun around from the corpse he'd just made. He saw Max, a short, skinny little weasel of a mouse, desperately fighting against one of Black's henchmen with his dagger. It didn't look like he'd last much longer.

The mouse in question wasn't very tall himself. He was a bit shorter than Gareth, who was only slightly higher than average. But he was well-built, and his fur, an off-white color, was probably the cleanest in the room. His eyes looked like green glass, and the look of patient determination on his face emphasized his apparent youth. And yet, he looked extremely skilled. Though his clothes were worn, they were practical and well made – with his blue cap and jacket, he cut a princely figure amongst the room full of thugs and dead bodies. Gareth was intrigued.

Drawing his own sword, he jumped in and took Max's place. The smaller mouse gladly took Gareth's own with a sigh of relief. The sharpened sewing needle of the white-furred mouse clashed with Gareth's long and flexible tailor's pin. As they struggled against each other's strength, Gareth raised an eyebrow in appreciation of the quality of his opponent's blade. "Nice craftsmanship. Did you make it yourself?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." The young mouse thrust from the side, and Gareth dodged the attack, parrying with his own sword. The fight continued for some time, pitting Gareth's experience against the white mouse's agility and skill.

In the end, when the rest of the fight was over, Master Black was dead and mutilated, and all the other henchmen had either fled or had been killed, Gareth and the white mouse were still dueling. The rest of Ratigan's mice were left staring dumbfounded at the two of them – one a full adult, filthy and gray, with clothes dyed brown from all the dried blood he'd had to wash out of it, and the other youthful, spry, and white as linen, dressed in blue and black.

At last, the young mouse disarmed Gareth with swift cut to his sword hand, kicking his blade out of reach. Instantly, Morgan, a huge lumbering mouse that one could almost mistake for a rat, appeared in front of Gareth, pounding his fist into his palm. The youth's eyes widened, and he moved in a defensive stance.

"Stop." Gareth pushed Morgan aside. "See here, lad. You're the last one standing here. You ain't got an employer anymore. Even if you run, no one'll hire you, because they'll know how you survived. And for a mouse as young as you are, that can't be good for your reputation, nor your, ah, career. But I'm willing to make a proposition. You willing to listen?"

Warily, the mouse nodded.

"See here – Professor Ratigan – he's our boss – is always looking for new skilled mice such as yourself. If you was to give him a demonstration of your prowess, well, I'm his lieutenant, an' I think he'd let you into his employ. I don't doubt you know who he is – and trust me, he pays well. When you work for the Professor, you're successful, you're feared, an' you're let into any bar you want. Lots of perks. So what do you say you put that sword away and come back with us, lad, eh? I know you've impressed me – you might just impress Ratigan."

Still in a defensive position, the young mouse glanced warily around at the crowd of henchmen waiting to pounce. "If I want to live, it doesn't look as though I have a lot of choice." His voice was soft and high. How old was he? Around seventeen? Barely more than a boy.

"That'd be correct, laddie. I'm not sayin' the job ain't a nice one. Drink pink champagne every day, or be riddled with holes. I think it's a pretty obvious choice, lad," Gareth offered.

The white mouse considered it for a few moments. He sheathed the needle into a long, thin leather pocket attached to his belt. Gareth noticed for the first time that the lad was using the eye of the needle as a handle. Clever.

"A good choice, son. What's your name?"

"Cecil. Cecil Burns."

~~~oOo~~~

Cecil was being led blindfolded through the pipes – his hands, however, were unbound, so he could reach his sword at any time. Not that he would – you'd have to be a complete idiot to try something like that in his situation. One didn't threaten Ratigan, or his men, without a considerable amount of reinforcements.

They reached the hideout and pressed on into Ratigan's study. The Professor waited there, and turned around with a grin. "Gareth! You're back in one piece! I trust you have my money?"

Gareth tossed a burlap bag onto Ratigan's desk with a proud smirk. "All twenty thousand quid, boss. As he owed."

"Excellent," Ratigan purred. He paused, and raised his eyebrows. "And I see you have a guest." His tone was light, but what was left unspoken was obvious – _If you've brought me something I don't like, I can always feed you to my cat._

Gareth yanked the blindfold off the white mouse's face. "This here is Cecil Burns." The young white mouse stared up at the great, infamous Ratigan. Gareth felt a wave of sympathy for the lad. Ratigan was always more huge and threatening than one expected. "He's one of the best swordsmice I've ever had the pleasure of fighting. He was working for Black when we found him – he agreed to come along with us, if he got the chance of working for you."

Ratigan skeptically raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? Just how skilled?"

Max spoke up. "'E disarmed 'im, boss." Gareth raised his bandaged hand to corroborate this statement.

"Well," Ratigan drawled. His eyes bored down at the young white mouse, giving Cecil the shivers. "I suppose, I could give him a chance. Gareth," Ratigan snapped. His lieutenant jumped to attention. "You know that heist we have planned for Friday?"

"Aye, Professor."

"If...Cecil...here can take Morgan's place on that heist, then I'll let him into the fold. Let us call it a little test, shall we? Until Friday, he can stay with Doctor Jones."

Gareth nodded in agreement. Doctor Jones was the surgeon for Ratigan's men – it made sense to have a potential recruit stay with him until he proved himself.

"What say you to that, Mister Burns?"

All the mice in the room stiffened as Ratigan directly addressed Cecil.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Cecil slowly raised his head and briefly, boldly, met eyes with the most feared crime lord in London.

"That sounds like an excellent idea, Professor Ratigan."

All the other mice in the room breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Ratigan twisted his mouth into an amused smile. And yet, there was still a quiet, almost indiscernible tension between the newcomer and the Napoleon of Crime. Their thoughts, respectively, as Cecil was escorted from the room:

_I don't care how terrifying you may seem. You're still just a mouse. I will treat you with just as much respect as I treated Master Black, perhaps more, but I refuse to fear you. I got into this business to be respected and admired out of infamy, not to be stepped down on. I won't let you step on me._

_You're an enigma, Mister Burns. An interesting, handsome, and obviously highborn puzzle. I will decipher you, my dear Cecil. I will figure you out, learn what makes you so intriguing. Learn why you speak like the aristocracy, learn why you are so bold. I want to learn everything about you. I'm sure it won't be boring._

~~~oOo~~~

**Next up! – Volume II: Cecil the Master Thief!**


	2. Chapter 2

_Volume II: Cecil the Master Thief_

Doctor Jones was a very small, stout mouse – his whiskers had a habit of twitching when he was nervous, which was most of the time. His fur was a pale brown, and he wore a once fine tweed suit that was now very faded, and covered in patches and mended holes. With ears almost as large as his head, he was the butt of many jokes at his expense among Ratigan's crew. Even so, Jones would patch up anyone's injuries and tend to anyone sick, even though he was a prisoner here. And that had earned Cecil's respect.

As a result, Cecil was the only one in the lair to treat Jones well, aside from Gareth's lack of cruelty, although the lieutenant never bothered protecting the surgeon from the others. The two developed quite a rapport – Cecil was considering sharing some rather important information with Doctor Jones, but wasn't sure if he was ready for it yet. Maybe after the heist on Friday.

Cecil himself was constantly being studied by Ratigan's mice – by Gareth in particular. For some reason, he felt drawn to the young mouse, and it made him review Morgan, his deputy. His recent performance had not been satisfactory lately. Morgan was drinking a lot, and showing some insubordination. And while trading insults and jeers were a common part of being teammates in the criminal world, Max was starting to complain that Morgan was a bit too hard with his punches for them to be friendly, and that he was too sensitive when it came to others returning snarks. Morgan was valuable to have, in that he was a very strong piece of muscle, but he seemed altogether too unhappy that the new recruit was taking his place on this job.

Gareth was starting to speculate on whether Morgan was planning on leaving the group. You'd have to be insane to try that with Ratigan's mice, of course – but then again, Morgan wasn't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. Gareth wondered if he should replace him as deputy.

Not that any of this was Ratigan's concern, of course. He was the boss – he made the big plans, he told them what to do, got them all rich, threatened them on a daily basis - everything a crime boss was supposed to do and did. Any minor power plays, squabbles, bickering, and dissent among the ranks of henchmen were a daily, commonplace matter. As Ratigan's right hand mouse, it was Gareth's job to deal with that.

But Ratigan was aware of all of it, whether Gareth told him or not. He was, after all, a very observant genius.

~~~oOo~~~

Friday late afternoon came. The crew were putting their gear together – Cecil had joined them. After all, it was best the newbie learned the routine as quickly as possible.

Gareth thoughtfully paused by Cecil's side as the white mouse pulled tight on his bootstraps. They were very shabby boots – they looked as though they had been pulled out of the garbage and then worn again by a growing adolescent for the past five years, and Gareth rather suspected that this was exactly what had happened.

"Here." Gareth handed Cecil a handgun. "I noticed you didn't have one. You can keep this one if you live through today – consider it an investment, or a gift, whichever's easier."

The lad took it appreciatively and stuck it in his belt. "Thanks. I'm better with my sword, though, so I prefer using a blade to bullets."

"That's a rare talent. But remember to keep a gun on you – could save your life one day. It certainly did mine."

Cecil looked up at him curiously, green eyes glittering. "Really? I'd like to hear that story."

"Maybe another time, lad. It's time for the briefing."

All the mice who worked for Ratigan gathered in the main room of the lair – they all sat or stood, as they were comfortable, facing the stage that Ratigan had cleared for himself.

"AH-hem." Ratigan rapped on his desk to gain their attention. The room fell quiet. Ratigan pulled out a pointer and pulled off a sheet that was covering an easel. The picture on it was a newspaper, stiffened with plaster. The headline read: Ruby Worth 600,000 to Come to National Museum.

"Today, we are after a very specific piece from the Mousedom of Britain Museum - the infamous Romanian Alucard Ruby. Now, despite what you may think, we are not stealing this ruby to sell it. I have a more ambitious scheme in mind for it."

One might have expected eruptions of displeasure and protest at this announcement. There were none. You didn't interrupt Ratigan during one of his speeches.

"This I shall elaborate on once we have acquired it." He pulled the newspaper away, revealing a blueprint of the museum. "My plan is to enter the museum through the human entrances, and make our way to our own museum through the air vents. As the ordinary entrance is through the gutter system, there will be minimal security from this point of entry.

"We will stake out our target for five hours – Gareth, organize shifts – and enter the museum at two o'clock in the morning. There will be more guard patrols, considering the valuables the museum holds, but it will be easier, as we won't have to contend with crowds and numerous witnesses. We'll advance through the museum to the ruby's display using these three routes, splitting up into teams of five." Ratigan pointed out three routes through the halls outlined in red. "My orders as to dealing with the guards are as such – If they see you, kill them. If they may have seen you, kill them. If they haven't, knock them unconscious. Just make sure no others are alerted, and put the bodies in a place where they won't be found for a while. Leave two of you behind at every bloody patch to clean it up – have them catch up with their group after they have finished. We will all rendezvous at the ruby's display case, then we all take the same route back to the air vents and make our escape as quickly as possible.

"In the event that you are spotted, and the police have been alerted to our presence, you will be split into two groups – Group A, and Group B. Group A will cover the escape of Group B, who will be fleeing back to the hideout with the ruby. Group A will fight off the police, until they have summoned too many reinforcements, and then they will scatter and retreat, meeting back up here. Gareth will sort you into your advance teams – One, Two, and Three – and also into your fighting and fleeing groups. Any questions?"

Max timidly raised a hand.

"Yes?" Ratigan snapped.

"Er, guv'nor, der's a diamond n' pearl necklace at thuh' place – iz worth abou' a million quid. Are we gonna steal dat too, boss?"

"Hmm... Perhaps another time, Maxwell – the ruby is here in Britain on loan, so we only have a limited time in which to steal it. The Marseilles necklace will be there indefinitely."

Max seemed dissatisfied with this answer, but he didn't dare voice his opinion.

Everything being settled, they all prepared, and set out to watch their target until the clock struck two.

How could they know that there was going to be a factor that none of them would have seen coming?

~~~oOo~~~

It was ten minutes to two. All the mice were tense. Cecil sat on the shingle of a roof, sharpening his sword. Gareth squatted next to him. He'd put Cecil in Team One, with him. He wanted to see how he performed fighting for them firsthand – being able to assess the newcomer was important.

He sheathed his sword, and took a deep tense, breath. Gareth wondered... "Where are you from?"

Cecil's ears pricked up, and he turned to Gareth. "Why do you ask?"

Gareth shrugged. "Just curious."

Cecil turned away. The breeze picked up, rustling the white fur on his head – he'd stuffed his cap in his pocket. He stared off into the distance at Big Ben, as if it held the end-all-be-all of everything. "I'm from the north."

Gareth snorted in amusement. "That's dog shit. You don't have the accent for it, and you speak too fancy." Cecil's hand went to his sword. "Issall right, lad. We all got our secrets here. You got yours, I got mine – we keep to ourselves."

Cecil relaxed, and his hand dropped. "All right, then."

The bell tolled twice. It was time. The human museum was across the street and down by a few buildings. Gareth motioned to the other mice in their team – Tells, a ginger, short nosed little field mouse from Scotland who could, surprisingly, pack quite a punch if antagonized, and with a very short temper. Then there was Potato, a squat mouse so named for his enormous muscles. Finally, there was Leslie, a freakishly tall and skinny dark brown mouse, with a propensity for appearing out of nowhere and looking eerily down at you, as well as a number of...talents...that Gareth would probably have questioned, were they not so useful.

"All right. We'll go down the drainpipes and through the gutters – our entrance is -" Gareth broke off at the sight of Cecil's raised eyebrow. "Yeh?"

"With respect, we'll be likely to be seen if we go by the gutters. And besides, there's a faster way." Cecil pointed down at the human carriages. Rather active for this time of night, Cecil noted with surprise. No matter – they were humans – they got up to all sorts of things.

"Are yeh crazy, new boy?!" Tells snarled. "We'll get run over! Or worse, splattered on the pavement!"

Cecil chuckled. His laugh was light, almost like a girl's giggle. "It's really very easy." Without another word, he jumped onto a clothesline, and ran down the thin wire, sliding over to a long nightgown, grabbing onto the collar, and slipping to the end; he started to swing back and forth, slowly gaining momentum. Carefully timing his swings, he finally leapt down into the street below, onto a carriage headed in the direction of the museum. His teammates were left with their mouths hanging open.

"Well," Leslie spoke quietly. "He is right."

Slowly, the mice all followed Cecil's lead, cursing and swearing as some of them almost fell off. They jumped to the curb as soon as the museum was reached.

All except Cecil stopped to catch their breath. The white mouse chortled in amusement, stopping short at Gareth's glare.

"Let's get a move on," the team leader said shortly, and he swiftly led the way to the air vents, leaving the others sprinting to catch up.

~~~oOo~~~

Ratigan watched Team One's advance through his binoculars. He doubted the stunt with the carriages was Gareth's idea – he was too cautious for that. The others didn't have nearly enough imagination to come up with this, so it must have been Cecil Burns.

Curious. He must have lived on the streets of London town for quite a while, then, to have this much confidence in moving through it. Then again, the same could be said of his own henchmen, so that didn't say much. No, it spoke of having been chased many times before – hopefully by the police, or some such other authority. If it turned out that Ratigan's new recruit had an enemy that Gareth had not been made aware of, then he would be punished for omitting such information. Severely.

All background thoughts aside, Cecil was very agile. He had leaped and slid with the grace of an acrobat, and his balance was admirable. He made all the others on his team look clumsy as they followed him onto the clothesline and down into the street.

Ratigan ordered his team to advance in their own fashion, and saw that Maxwell was finally doing the same. Very reluctant, that mouse. At least Gareth had managed to whip some backbone into the pickpocket – he was insufferable before he had reluctantly joined their ranks.

Oh well. It was showtime.

~~~oOo~~~

The halls of the museum after hours were cavernous and dark. The five mice scampered quietly through the shadows – Gareth had memorized the route they were taking, and they all followed him. The others seemed to be taking turns glaring at Cecil – the mouse's white fur practically glowed in the dark.

Footsteps. The five mice stopped in their tracks, their ears pricked. A pair of guards in uniform rounded the corridor; one of them turned in their direction and frowned.

In an instant, the guard was run through cleanly on Cecil's blade – the other had his throat cut by Leslie. With what weapon, exactly, none of them ever saw. The two enemies died in near-silence.

Gareth nodded to Leslie and Cecil, and whispered, "Good job, boys. You stay behind and clean up the mess. Remember the plan – catch up with us later." Gareth, Potato and Tells proceeded onward, leaving the two of them behind.

Surreptitiously, the two studied each other as they dragged the bodies to a nearby broom closet. Both were immaculate, with no blood on their paws at all. With Cecil, it was understandable, as he hadn't gotten his paws dirty, but the white mouse hadn't seen the other draw any kind of weapon or even sheathe it afterwards. It made the hairs on the back of Cecil's neck stand on end. Seeing this, a look of amusement crossed Leslie's face before it settled back into its usual blankness.

Before closing the closet door, Cecil pulled the boots off the mouse he'd killed. "What are you doing?" Leslie hissed.

"It's a decent pair of boots. Who am I to waste an opportunity?" Leslie watched as Cecil tied the bootstraps together and slung them over his shoulder. "Now come on – we have to wipe up the the blood and catch up with the others."

Thankfully, they both had a few rags on them, so they didn't have to go find a mop. They stuffed the rags behind a curtain and ran to catch up.

~~~oOo~~~

Unseen by the two henchmice, someone stood just around the corner in one of the corridors as they stuffed the bodies out of sight. As they dashed away to rejoin their comrades, the other, too, slipped away, a mission in mind.

~~~oOo~~~

The others were almost at the display case when Cecil and Leslie joined them. Gareth acknowledged them with a silent nod, and the group continued on their way. As they entered the room where the ruby was kept, Ratigan's team came in from the other door, almost simultaneously. The boss' timing was nothing if not perfect.

Ratigan drew a sharp breath at the sight of the ruby. "Beautiful," he sighed, and all the other mice couldn't help but agree. It was like a drop of sparkling blood, captured in a crystalline form.

Ratigan reached forward and took hold of it, cradling it gently in his paws as he wrapped it up in paper and replaced it with a fake – simple thing of red glass. It wouldn't stand up to inspection – Gareth could tell from three feet away. It was mainly to mock the curator and the Romanian ambassadors.

The boss turned to face the doors, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Where is Team Two?"

All the mice in the room stiffened, for it was true – if they hadn't run into trouble, Max's team would have been here by now.

"Group A, remain here while Group B returns to the hideout. If Team Two doesn't come here in ten minutes, go look for them and get them out of whatever has held them up. The original plan still applies." Gareth nodded his assent, and those in Group B turned to leave.

They didn't have to wait ten minutes. Mice in uniform burst through the double doors at the front of the room. "Police! Put your hands in the air!" Some mice fought while the majority of Group B made their escape. Blood and smoke was in the air – Cecil and Leslie used their talents to kill a number of officers, occasionally exchanging glances in the chaos. Professor Ratigan was halfway out the door when the surprise arrived.

A figure in a long coat and a distinctive hat strode into the room. "Ratigan!" he barked. "You're not getting anywhere near that ruby!"

Ratigan froze in his tracks and turned around. Basil of Baker Street stood there, in the middle of the room. And the pure hatred that rose to his features caused many of the combatants to stand shaking in their shoes.

You see, Mister Basil of Baker Street was a very clever mouse. But he was not an expert in everything, as he liked to pretend. A genius like Ratigan could tell from the way the light hit the counterfeit that it was, indeed, a false ruby, but Basil was no genius. If he had been, Ratigan might have liked him, and considered him a friendly rival. But, as the case may be, he was not a genius, merely clever. And that mouse, who was merely very clever, had stopped Ratigan on numerous occasions. Ratigan could not stoop to being beaten by anything less than pure genius, and the fact that this merely clever mouse was beating him again and again enraged him beyond anything else.

And so that was why Ratigan, the real ruby still his jacket pocket, turned around and joined the brawl, pulling out his gun and launching himself at Basil.

And so the fight continued, fiercer and more deadly than before. And only the eye of a white mouse in the midst of the clamor saw a small package fall from Ratigan's jacket and clatter to the floor. A white hand swooped to the floor, snatching the package up, before the hand's owner returned to the fight.

~~~oOo~~~

The battle lasted for hours, and the criminals eventually scattered and fled, leaving many dead policemen behind, and not a single one of them so much as captured. The curator howled with anguish when the fake was discovered, and Basil cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

All in all, the law had been successfully broken that night, but Ratigan had returned to the hideout in a dark mood, which only worsened when he discovered the ruby missing.

"That piece of dog shit! I'll kill him!" Ratigan howled as he smashed the top of his desk. All his henchmice were cowering in hidden corners, and wondering why Cecil was still out in the open. Was he insane?

Cecil had contemplated taking off with the ruby, but decided against it. It wasn't worth being hunted down and killed. So Cecil spoke up, in a calm voice. "Boss," he said pointedly.

Ratigan whirled around, rage in every fiber of his body, towering over the much smaller Cecil. Gareth, Tells, and Leslie all cringed, believing they were about to witness their new friend's bloody demise.

The white mouse held out his hand with the package in his palm, apparently perfectly serene in the face of the raging storm. "You dropped it during the fight," Cecil said in a matter-of-fact tone.

The world seemed to freeze.

And then Ratigan straightened his back, the only clues that anything had happened being the smashed desk and the calculating glance he threw at Cecil. "Ah, I see. Excellent work, Cecil." He plucked the ruby from the henchmouse's hand, opening the package eagerly to make sure it was the real one. All the others in the room breathed a sigh of relief. "Now, what exactly happened to Maxwell and the others?"

Gareth spoke up. "We got them back, boss. The police had 'em held up at gunpoint. Apparently the Bonnie of Baker Street tipped them off as to what we were doing. He heard 'bout the ruby, and staked 'imself out in the museum."

Ratigan snarled and cursed again, but quickly relaxed. "Ah, no matter. At least we have the ruby. You've all done good work tonight, boys. And I believe Cecil here has more than earned his place in our ranks."

The men cried out in a cheer, the pink champagne was broken out, and much celebration was had for another successful heist. Cecil, after a few hours, made his excuses and left the party for Doctor Jones' rooms.

The doctor looked up from his tea as the white mouse entered. "Ah, Cecil. The heist was successful, I take it?"

"Indeed," Cecil nodded. Then, hesitantly, he added, "Doctor Jones, I have something very important to tell you, not just because I believe we've gotten to be friends, but especially since you're the surgeon here. Can you keep a secret?"

Unbeknownst to Cecil and the good doctor, another pair of ears had lent themselves to the conversation, via an empty glass on the other side of the wall.

**Next up! - Volume III: The Secret of Cecil Burns**


	3. Chapter 3

_Volume III: The Secret of Cecil Burns_

Cecil fiddled with a teacup as Doctor Jones poured some cream. The doctor gave him a reassuring look, and settled comfortably back in his chair, motioning for Cecil to continue.

The white mouse swallowed nervously, and began to speak. "I suppose I don't know quite know how to begin. But one thing's for sure, doctor, and it is this – I'm not quite who I've said I am."

~~~oOo~~~

Ratigan was now very glad that he had decided to have the doctor's quarters moved next to his office – sitting in a chair by the wall, with a glass to his ear, he didn't even have to strain to hear what was being said.

Not quite what he'd said he was, eh? This mouse would soon find that nothing, absolutely nothing was hidden from Ratigan by his own men. The king of crime nearly bristled at the very thought. This upstart would be made an example of, he would see to it! Already, Ratigan was thinking of tortures and hideous, lethal punishments that could be inflicted on Cecil Burns.

~~~oOo~~~

"That's not to say that everything I've said has been a lie – almost everything I've said has been the truth, save a few details." Cecil fidgeted. "I just – I'd like to be sure you won't tell anyone. And I mean _anyone_. I'd also like to be sure that you won't judge me for this."

"My boy, surely you know you can trust me -"

"Swear it."

Somewhat surprised, Doctor Jones nodded slowly and said, "I swear on my life that I won't reveal your secret. Or judge you for it," he added.

Cecil relaxed slightly, and gulped. "The thing is, doctor – my name isn't actually Cecil."

~~~oOo~~~

On the other side of the wall, Ratigan waited, with a grin on his face so hideous and terrible that it would terrify any mouse who had the misfortune to walk in. He had him now! What was his real name? Did he plan to betray him? He would slaughter him for this deception! He would draw and quarter him – carve out his entrails for all of London to see! The Lord of Mousedom's Underworld was practically tingling with anticipation. No one _ever_ betrayed Ratigan and got away with it!

~~~oOo~~~

"It's Katherine. Katherine Burns."

~~~oOo~~~

It took him a moment to realize what he'd just heard. In that moment, you could've heard a pin drop in his office, he was so still.

When the realization hit, Ratigan was stunned at first, and then furious that he hadn't seen it before. It was all so obvious now!

He – she, he corrected himself – began speaking again, and Ratigan leaned back in to listen.

~~~oOo~~~

"My family has always been involved in crime, for many generations now. Our lives practically revolved around it – you won't hear the name Burns spoken of in any British underground circles, but we used to go by a lot of different names – Burnett, Bourbon, and Bentham being just a few. But when Mousetoria became Queen, things became much more difficult for us. London soon got its own police force, complete with detectives, and it became harder to keep up a life of crime in secret. Many of my aunts and uncles fled to Europe, spreading the family business there. My father stayed in England, and chose to live on the straight and narrow, so that he could act as my family's last contact in Britain.

"My brother Balthazar and I grew up respectably, in a house in Kensington. Balthazar had a fencing teacher, and when we were young, he secretly taught me how to use a sword. But things eventually went wrong – our father died when I was ten, and his assets were seized once he was found guilty of various crimes in his past. My mother, my brother and I were all disgraced and bankrupt. Balthazar sailed to Greece, to join our relatives there and send us money. My mother and I were left to fend for ourselves, and when I was twelve, she simply went missing. There was no trace of where she could have gone – no passports, no witnesses, no records of a woman by her description were anywhere to be found. She had simply vanished into thin air, and never came back." She sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"I was left on my own, with nothing to my name. I tried sending letters to my family in Europe at first, but I had no money for tickets on a ship, not even enough for a fee to cross the Channel. God's teeth, I didn't even have enough money to eat. And so I came up with a plan.

"I was lost, on the streets, and girl, no less, which made it all the more dangerous. I had to change who I was in order to stay safe. So I found myself some old boy's clothes, and I became Cecil.

"My pride wouldn't let me stoop to begging or the poorhouse, so I turned to my family's age-old tradition – crime. I tried starting out as a pickpocket, but I didn't have much talent for it at the start, and got caught far too often for my liking. At the time, I wasn't big enough to fight back, so I got very good at escaping.

"Then one day, I was stealing food from a human house, and then I saw this," she tapped the handle of her sword fondly, "sticking out of a large embroidery box. And seeing it changed my life forever. I was just playing with it at first, nostalgia bringing back memories of sparring with Balthazar. Then I brought it back home with me. And then I found myself sharpening it on a piece of steel, and before I knew it, I was carrying it around with me as a sword. I made the sheath and my belt out of a piece of lost leather from a tanner's place, and started hiring myself out as a mercenary mouse. I was surprised at how good I was – Balthazar had never called me skilled. But I pressed on, and in a few years, I was making quite a pretty penny." Katherine smiled wryly. "It's been quite the life. I'm nineteen now, and you're the first mouse I've ever told."

Doctor Jones took a long, deep breath. His eyes were wide. "That's...quite a story. I'm astonished you have made it this long without anyone finding out."

"A few did – by accident, not by themselves, and they're dead now. I killed them." Katherine's eyes were hard and cold. "Two people can keep a secret very easily. Even better if one of them is dead. You would do well to remember that, Doctor. I like you a great deal, and hold you in high regard, even consider you a friend, but I am not a gentle person, nor do I easily forgive." The white mouse leaned forward to put down her cup of tea. "My telling you this secret means that I trust you. Very much. I am also trusting that you won't _betray_ my trust. Tell me, Doctor, am I _right_ to place my trust in you?" Katherine tilted her head, indicating that she wanted an answer.

Hastily, Doctor Jones nodded, his over-large ears shaking in fear. Katherine nodded in acceptance; she sat back and sighed. "I'm sorry for frightening you, Doctor Jones. I don't want things to be bad between us. I've been Cecil for so long, my identity as a henchmouse has become like armor. I hardly know anymore where the act ends and I begin. I feel like a crab who's just poked a hole in his shell, leaving my vulnerability exposed, and I'm dead terrified that it's going to bite me in the back. And yet, after all this time, I'm still relieved – I've been desperate for someone else to know for far too long."

The medical mouse gulped and nodded, slowly regaining his composure. "And, er, what should I call you?"

"Cecil, or Mister Burns, in front of others. In private, you can call me Katherine. When I'm sure we're alone, I'll nod my head twice. If I think someone's listening, I'll shake it three times. Understand?"

Jones nodded. He had an excellent memory, even when he was being scared witless.

"Good." Katherine stood up, as if to leave. "And Doctor Jones?"

He swallowed, wondering what else she was going to threaten him with. "Er, yes?"

"Thank you, for being an honest and trustworthy mouse. You don't meet many of those in my line of work." Katherine smiled bitterly, and turned away, closing the door behind her.

David Solomon Jones breathed a heavy sigh as she left. Katherine Burns was a terrifying woman, to be sure. Then again, Ratigan was quite a powerful and frightening individual himself. The question was, did he fear Katherine enough to be willing to keep a secret from Ratigan? Or was he more afraid of his current captor? The big-eared mouse weighed his options. On one hand, he was totally in Ratigan's power, and it would be beyond difficult to keep a secret from the genius. And on the other hand, Katherine was the only one he had encountered since being first imprisoned here who had been kind to him at all, and she had even protected him from the others. Before he knew that she wasn't Cecil, he had hoped that the white mouse might help him escape – but now he knew the truth, and knew that she was in no position to help him. She was already in a precarious situation as it was, having a secret identity and all.

And so Doctor Jones found himself facing a dilemma. He could either betray his new, strong friend, thereby gaining a dangerous enemy, or risk being thrown into the jaws of a cat for keeping a secret from Ratigan. A difficult choice, to be sure.

~~~oOo~~~

As Ratigan removed his ear from the glass, he couldn't help but ponder the many answers to the question that was Cecil Burns.

He had heard of the Burns family before, but by the name of Belfast – indeed, they had been very prominent in criminal circles before Mousetoria had inherited the throne. The power gap they had left behind, among many other things, had contributed greatly to Ratigan's own rise to power. And now the very last member of the family left in England was working for him, as little more than a common thug.

Ratigan snorted in disbelief. It was truly a farce – a situation worthy of a Shakespearean comedy. A woman, dressing as a man, and living a thrilling life of crime! It was almost ludicrous.

Inwardly he berated himself, as he began to realize that the evidence had always been there, and he simply hadn't seen it. The sophisticated vocabulary, the high-pitched voice, her short stature and preference for privacy: everything had pointed to her secret from the beginning.

The professor found that he had to admire Katherine's ruthlessness – the eloquent phrasing of her threat had surprised him, and Ratigan found that he could easily imagine her being in a powerful position if her family had decided to stay in England. An elegant Duchess in the court of London's underworld, orchestrating crimes with the same cool ease as when embroidering an altarcloth.

It came as a surprise to Ratigan that he could so easily imagine her having long hair, wearing a dress and acting feminine. She would have been beautiful. Judging from what he'd seen of her hair from under the cap she wore, it matched the color of her fur, and was naturally curly – he could visualize it falling in ringlets to frame her face, perhaps pinned back in a swirling French braid. And she might wear a pale green ball gown that would bring out her eyes, made of silk and its neckline cut low to just slightly accentuate her figure -

Ratigan stopped himself before he could think any further, startled at his own thoughts. _Watch yourself, Padraic – you only just found out that she is a woman! What makes you so eager? And besides, now that that little mystery is solved, one can expect that she's much more boring to you now. She's a simple henchmouse – a walking weapon! You have absolutely no reason to have an interest in her!_

He decided that he would not expose Cecil's little secret. She had no desire to conspire against him, that he knew of, and as she was the only member of her family on this side of the English Channel, she probably didn't pose a threat. Ratigan's eyes narrowed as he thought of Doctor Jones. Him, however, he might have some words for.

 _Katherine Burns_. Quietly, he whispered the name – it rolled off his tongue like he had been waiting to say it his whole life. The name Cecil didn't suit her anyway; it was quick and smooth, like the strokes of a sharp pencil – a pickpocket's name. Katherine was strong, fierce and fiery. And yet – Ratigan could see her in his mind's eye, standing at some high-society luncheon, acting shy and demure. He had noticed her kindness to the surgeon; there was a softer side of her, too, he was quite sure. Katherine would be too harsh a name for a friend to use with her, for her family to use with her – when she turned her kind eyes to them, calling her Katherine would be too formal. Ratigan mulled over this thought, and at last settled on a name. _Kate_ , perhaps, might be suitable for an admirer to call her.

He had to, albeit grudgingly, admit that he admired her. In the last few days alone, she had proven herself to be of excellent wit and capability. But Ratigan would not let her inspire any sort of lustful or amorous desires in him – he was the Master Criminal, he could not afford to become distracted!

He stood up and dusted himself off. He needed to have a conversation with Jones – the heat in the room was getting stifling.

~~~oOo~~~

The door slammed open, startling the poor surgeon and sending him cowering under the chair. A large hand seized him roughly by the nape of the neck. "Did you really think you could keep a secret from me?" a voice hissed, and Jones found himself face-to-face with Ratigan.

"I – I, ah," Jones stammered.

"You will answer me when I speak to you!"

"I – I'm sorry, sir! I – I didn't mean to -"

Ratigan threw him to the ground in disgust; Doctor Jones whimpered with pain as his ribcage connected with the edge of the table. "You are lucky that this is of little consequence to me. If this were something important, I would have you skinned from head to toe, roasted on a spit, and fed to Felicia. Count yourself fortunate that I have found out now, rather than later, when it might have affected me badly." Ratigan seized him by the lapels of his coat and held him up against the wall, feet dangling from the air. His lips were curled into a terrifying snarl. "Next time, you _will_ tell me. You will not keep the secret for longer than a second before coming to inform me, and heaven help you if you tell anyone else before myself. Understand?"

Jones hastily nodded, and Ratigan released him, carelessly dropping him into the seat of his armchair. "You are not to tell Miss Burns of my knowledge of this," he ordered. "Act as though you have told no one. And if you let her know," Professor Ratigan's lips curled into a terrible smile: "on your own _head_ be it."

And then he left, closing the door behind him as if nothing had happened. Only the Doctor's heavy breathing, the pain in his shoulders and ribs, and a few broken teacups were left of his outburst. But Ratigan had succeeded in making his point. Jones quivered and curled into a ball. What would become of him now?

**Next Up! - Volume IV: Cecil The Opium Dealer!**


	4. Chapter 4

_Volume IV: Cecil The Opium Dealer_

Gareth wrinkled his nose at the stench of the back alley. He hated this part of London.

Every three to five feet, there lay some poor unwashed bastard strung out on cocaine – it boggled Gareth's mind that opium smuggling had to be kept under wraps, but cocaine was still considered recreational, if rather disreputable. This place was known as Addict's Alley, and every criminal worth his salt knew that this was the place to go if you wanted to buy or sell drugs. Ratigan wanted Gareth there to deliver a message to a Chinese opium dealer named Fanchang. What for, Gareth wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

He'd decided to bring along Cecil (so he could keep an eye on the newbie), Morgan (because he didn't trust him alone back at the hideout without someone to keep him in line), and Tells (so Gareth didn't feel like he was babysitting the others the whole time). To tell the truth, Gareth would have preferred to bring Max along rather than Morgan, as the bigger mouse was very large and intimidating, and also very noticeable and easily spotted. Gareth would very much rather keep a low profile in a place this public and prone to police raids. 

Cecil Burns, surprisingly enough, seemed to be good at keeping a low profile, despite his distinctive white fur. He kept his head on a swivel, giving every figure in the alley a furtive glance. Strangely enough, they all ignored him.

Gareth wondered if perhaps he was familiar with Addict's Alley – he hoped it wasn't due to an addiction. Ratigan couldn't care less about his henchmens' drug habits, but it could prove a fatal weakness if they needed him to fight.

Gareth put a hand on Cecil's shoulder. “Something wrong, lad?” he asked quietly. “You're lookin' like you got fleas in your trousers.”

Cecil shook his head. “I was cornered here once, that's all. Bad memories.”

“Ah.” That would explain him being on his guard. Good – he should be. 

Gareth despised anything that reminded him of opium or narcotics – it was what led to his mother's, and eventually his brother's, death. He had little patience for those who dealt in such substances – and even less for those who indulged in them. He sincerely hoped Ratigan wasn't going into the business of it himself – it might end up being the one thing Gareth couldn't take, and anyone who decided they were finished with Ratigan typically tended to find that Ratigan was finished with them – and the Napoleon of crime was never one to end things quietly.

(The idea that Ratigan could be wanting to actually _take_ the drugs, was, of course, out of the question. The Professor always wanted his mind clear, and his thoughts unhindered – his only mind-altering indulgence was in his precious pink champagne, and even that only sparingly.)

As the four made their way down another winding gutter, Gareth finally spotted a small doorway, little more than a mere mousehole, flanked by yellow and red bead curtains. That was the place – it fit Ratigan's description. As always before undertaking another job, Gareth silently prayed to heaven that this wouldn't be where he died. The Lord had probably long since abandoned him for his life of sin, but he could always hope.

“That's our stop, lads. Morgan and I'll go in – Tells, Cecil, you both keep watch outside. Warn us if it looks like the coppers are anywhere nearby. Got it?” All parties nodded their heads. “Good. Let's get on with it.”

They went inside, Gareth keeping Morgan where he could see him. _He better not pull anything – especially not here._

The inside was decorated with curtains and luxurious silk pillows and gave an almost relaxing atmosphere – if it weren't for the noxious, suffocating opium fumes floating throughout the place. It was a disgustingly sweet smell – saccharine, almost. It made Gareth want to gag. On every cushion, couch, chair, you name it, there was another opium addict, hookah in hand, vapor streaming from their mouths and nostrils, gaze empty. All of these mice were barely conscious, eyes glazed over, lungs full of the smoke that was slowly killing their minds and destroying their lives....

Gareth briefly shook himself before moving on into another hallway. He could feel Morgan's narrowed eyes on his back. Wonderful. The last thing he needed was for his untrustworthy deputy to think he was feeling off center.

At the end of the hallway was a pile of soft cushions, on which rested an old mouse in a Chinese silk suit, eyes closed and taking a long, hard pull on his hookah – his shoulders were being massaged by two young women wearing little more than their knickers. Gareth grimaced. This, presumably, was Fanchang.

Taking notice of their presence, the old mouse opened his filmy eyes and let out a puff of cloudy opium in their faces. Morgan faintly growled – Gareth was inclined to agree, but it wasn't the place nor the time.

“You're Mister Fanchang?”

The elderly mouse looked over them with disdain. “Yes.... And, you are?”

“Messengers. From Ratigan.” That got his attention. Fanchang set aside his hookah and leaned forward to take the offered note from Gareth's hand.

He slit open the envelope with one of his claws, unfolded the letter, and sighed dramatically. “English. I am new to this country, not used to reading the language – and my old eyes are so, so tired. Qin,” the old man said craftily, his eyes sliding over to the younger of the two girls and a lecherous grin creeping onto his face. “Read it to me, will you? And, whisper it in my ear.”

The girl took the paper, and Gareth couldn't help but feel his heart go out to the poor girl. From the looks of things she'd been taken from China, and shipped off to England - God only knew what horrors she'd been made to witness. From the looks of it, the one on Fanchang's other side might be her sister; she seemed to be of a tougher, fiercer sort, with a keen, calculating look in her eyes as she surveyed Gareth and Morgan, so he hoped she had been able to shield her sister from the worst. 

As Qin whispered the message into Fanchang's ear, a sneer crept onto the older mouse's face. He tore the letter from her hands and crumpled it in his fist. “Bah! Your boss, tell him he can – eh, what is it you English say? Go to hell. If he want to know the name and location of my suppliers, then he should start trading opium himself. I don't care who he think he is – tell him opium is where the money is now, and if he want London to be rid of it because he think it _interferes_ , then he is a fool.” He waved his hand at them. “Get out.”

Gareth couldn't help it anymore. He snickered.

Fanchang narrowed his eyes at him and snarled. “What is so funny?”

“You really must be new to England if you think Professor Ratigan is going to take that as an answer. You'll be dead by the end of the week.”

The elderly Chinamouse scoffed. “Your Ratigan is nothing to me. He is one mouse in England – I have many friends, in many places. What can he do to me?”

Gareth would have continued to argue the point, were it not for Tells pacing hurriedly into the room. “Gareth, we've got a wee problem. There's four coppers in uniform outside, headin' straight for us. Cecil's still out there to fight them off in case they come for us -”

“What? That idiot! What's the boy thinking? He can't possibly -”

There was shouting from outside, then a crashing sound, accompanied by the sound of smashing glass, and then finally a gunshot. Cecil came stumbling into the room with a bloody dead policeman slung over his shoulders and a smoking gun in his hand. He slumped over and let the body drop to the floor, breathing heavily. By now several of the addicts, hazy as they were, had screamed and run – to where, Gareth had no idea.

“They jumped me – I managed to get this one with my sword; I shot another in the shoulder and ran. The mousehole's been barricaded – for now.” Cecil hefted himself up as he spoke.

Gareth's eyes narrowed. “This is all wrong – why's there only four of 'em? This can't be just a raid....”

“They were shouting for 'Morgan' last I heard,” Cecil said pointedly, sidling the large mouse with a suspicious glare.

Gareth's spine suddenly got a chill as he turned to his deputy, a nasty smile slowly creeping onto Morgan's face. “'Ey boss,” the giant said softly, teeth bared in a vicious grin as he looked down at his commander. “Did ya' know there's a warrant out fer yer arrest? Reward and everything – big one, too. They said they'd triple it if I told 'em everything I knew 'bout Ratigan an' his men. Yer' a wanted man, boss. Now how d'you feel 'bout that?”

He could feel his chest tightening and his shoulders shaking – rage was slowly but surely consuming him. There were a lot of things you had to turn a blind eye to as a criminal, but betrayal was _never_ tolerated. You never turned on your partners, you watched your partners' backs, and you never, ever, _ever_ chose the coppers over the men you called friends. Especially not for money. Even as a henchmouse thug, you just never sunk _that low_.

Morgan suddenly lunged for him, and Gareth didn't have any time to draw his sword or his pistol – but Tells' fist was quicker. The giant mouse was out cold on the floor in seconds, and the ginger Scot was shaking out his hand. “Feh! His skull's thicker than me Aunt Mary's fruitcake.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Anytime, mate.”

There was a crashing sound reminiscent of splintering wood down the hall. Cecil's ears swiveled towards it. “That'll be the police.” The three mice readied themselves for a fight.

“Just one moment!” Gareth turned around to find Fanchang standing up behind him, looking absolutely furious. “You do this to my establishment! You bring down police on me! I kill you! I kill you now!” The more angry he was, the worse his English got. “Qin! Mei!”

The two girls' stances suddenly became hard, lean and dangerous. They drew out daggers from God-knows-where. Qin looked especially apologetic. “Sorry about this,” she said quietly. The other one – Mei, presumably – simply looked impassive. The two launched themselves at them, ready to strike - 

Just as the three policemen burst in through the other end of the hall, guns at the ready.

For a solid second, Gareth thought they were all completely screwed. And then a miracle happened.

Cecil dashed towards the Chinese sisters - 

Tells launched himself at one of the coppers - 

Gareth drew his pistol and raised it up - 

And in the next few seconds, Fanchang's throat was run clean through on Cecil's blade, Tells had dashed an officer's brains out on the arm of a wooden chair, and the other two coppers were down on the ground with bullets in their skulls. The two mouse girls still had their daggers in hand, looking very surprised and perplexed. 

Gareth _breathed_. He'd never shot so well in his life, and thank God he had. His gun had saved his life once again. There must be at least one angel still watching over him.

And for a lovely, terrible moment, there was silence.

Then chaos broke out as the younger of the two girls started screaming, the elder started demanding an explanation, Tells was yelling at Qin to stop it with her screeching (“You sound like a banshee!”), and Gareth's head was still swimming from the opium smoke in the air, the betrayal, and the miracle of those two lucky shots....

“All of you, quiet!” Cecil's voice rang out ( _he has a lovely voice_ , Gareth thought vaguely. _Just like a church bell_.) and the other three shut up at the sound of the sharp reprimand. Cecil looked right at Gareth, his determined bottle-green eyes catching his attention. “What do we do now, sir?”

His voice cut through the fog in Gareth's head like a knife through butter, and he shook himself. “Ah, right.” He looked around, taking in the scene. Three – no, four – dead coppers on the floor, an unconscious traitor, a number of potential witnesses, and all in a well-known opium den – and oh, right, the dealer was dead as well, and his two concubines were still very much alive and had definitely seen everything. Wonderful. Might as well sign his own death certificate here and now, and hold an early funeral to boot, because Ratigan was going to kill him. Kill him, stuff his head, and hang it on the mantle in his study as a gruesome warning to all of Gareth's successors.

Gareth rubbed his brow. _Think, think, think...._

“So.... The main problem, lads – and lasses,” he added for Mei and Qin's benefit (Cecil jumped, perhaps as if he'd forgotten the two of them were there), “is that we killed the dealer the boss was negotiating with. We'll have to find a way to cover that up from the Professor, but that'll be nearly impossible, so, we're dead. Not to mention Morgan mucked things up and we just murdered four coppers, which'll get us hanged for sure. So....yeah.”

“He might not be terribly upset that we killed the dealer.” Gareth turned, and Cecil was holding up the note Ratigan had sent with them, inspecting it thoughtfully. Tells sputtered.

“Are yeh mad?! 'E'll draw an' quarter you if 'e finds out yeh read 'is letter!”

“It says here that Ratigan wants Fanchang to back off from the opium trade and get out of England – it apparently 'interferes with his other business and enterprises,'” Cecil read aloud, pointedly ignoring Tells. “He might actually be happy that he's out of the picture. We can just blame everything on Morgan, and we will be fine.”

Tells sputtered and tried to protest, but Gareth held up his hand. “Now that's actually not a bad idea. In fact,” He eyed a few broken lanterns on the floor. “I have a few ideas as to how we can cover this mess up even further.”

~~~oOo~~~

About an hour later, Gareth, Cecil, Tells, Qin and Mei all stood outside a burning building, with Morgan lying unconscious at their feet. 

The version of events that they'd decided to tell Ratigan was that Morgan had betrayed them to the coppers, the police rushed in, killed Fanchang when he tried to flee, and the place caught fire when a stray bullet knocked down a lamp – they had barely escaped with their lives. Fairly close to the truth, but just far enough away to shift the blame away from Gareth, Tells and Cecil, and with the fire destroying much of the evidence, it would be harder for anyone to say otherwise. Ratigan would deal with Morgan when they got back to the hideout, and they (hopefully) wouldn't be punished for bungling the job.

Which left them with only one problem left.

“What about us?” Mei turned to them, a serious look on her face. “Qin and I – we are working women.” She leaned forward, gazing at Gareth through half-lidded eyes. “Do you want us to come back with you?”

It took all Gareth had to be able to look down at her with a straight face. “Young lady, I am old enough to be your father. There is nothing you could do to make me want to take you back with me, especially not to my men.”

“Well then what do we do?” Qin said, brushing a lock her hair back in annoyance. “We have nowhere to go, no place to stay.”

Cecil stiffly cleared his throat. The two girls looked at him. “Er, well, actually, I know a woman a few streets away – she runs a tavern with her beau. Her name's Madame Coquin – just tell her that Cecil Burns sent you, and she'll take care of you. If you stay with her, you'll always have work, room and board, and with any luck, you won't have to walk the streets - or do anything like that - ever again. Hold on, I'll write down the address for you.” 

As the white mouse dug a paper and pencil out of his jacket, Gareth suddenly found himself realizing that now that Morgan had betrayed them, he needed to find a replacement for his deputy. 

Who among his men stood out to him as a good candidate? His thoughts at first leapt to Tells, but no, he didn't work very well with others without someone else around to keep him in line, and just didn't command enough respect with the others. 

Leslie? Gareth shivered. Heavens no – that mouse scared him, and while Gareth did trust him, and didn't doubt he could keep others in line, he was just too quiet, too unnerving. A friend, yes, but a friend best kept at arm's length.

And then an unlikely option presented itself to him – Cecil. He worked well with others, he could make them listen to him - 

But no, he was new to the crew. Too new. It surely wouldn't be a good idea....

 _Max was almost as new when you promoted him_ , a small part of his mind reminded him. _Morgan always gave you a bad feeling, but you needed muscle. Cecil's only been around a few weeks, and you already feel like you can trust him with anything. Can't you just go with your gut on this one?_

His thoughts continued churning long after the girls left, and they bound and gagged Morgan to drag back to the lair. If Gareth seemed unusually quiet to the other two, neither mentioned it.

~~~oOo~~~

Ratigan had no facial tics to show when he was supremely irritated or annoyed. No twitching eyebrows, no bulging veins, no instinctive glare.

Many of his henchman wished he did have these, because the alternative was far more unnerving. Somehow, his simple, cold, blank stare as he loomed over them, arms folded, was ten times more frightening than if someone were shouting at them out of frustration. (Not that they would rather _Ratigan_ be angry enough to shout – when he lost his temper, mice tended to die.)

As such, (as they explained themselves as best they could) all three mice were very, very glad that (almost) everything really was Morgan's fault. 

(Not to mention the fact that Morgan wasn't really helping his own case, foaming at the mouth and shouting obscenities at everyone within sight, including Ratigan, cursing them all for separating him from his reward.)

When they were done, Ratigan raised an eyebrow, as if he knew there must be more to their story. But he simply turned away, an exasperated expression on his face. _Oh well – everything went about as well as could be expected, anyway – it was a forlorn hope that Fanchang would go quietly. At least the traitor was exposed before he could do any more damage_ , Ratigan thought with an irritated sigh.

“I would advise that you stand back.”

Tells and Gareth did so hastily, Cecil following them in confusion. Gareth grabbed the younger mouse's arm and urged him to stand against the wall. As Ratigan rang his bell, the older two closed their eyes out of habit – Cecil, not quite knowing what this meant, couldn't help but watch in awe and terror as a massive _cat_ lumbered into the room. 

There was a scream.

There was the sound of crunching bones.

And then there was silence, and a patch of blood on the floor where Morgan had once lain. Ratigan stroked the fur around Felicia's neck as her purrs filled the room, dismissing his henchmen now that the matter of the traitor had been taken care of. 

Nothing else could have made them run out faster.

~~~oOo~~~

When they were safe and sound in the hideout's kitchen, Gareth made a decision. 

Leslie, while reliable, was not trustworthy. And Gareth was certain that he had no desire to be his new deputy. Tells, while trustworthy, was hot-headed, and not always reliable. And that mouse was more of a follower than someone who could command. Gareth knew from his (brief) time in the Royal Navy that a reckless officer could spell disaster. The only other experienced mouse that he trusted with the work of a deputy was Max, who had already accepted the position – and he couldn't make do with just one. Which left only one option....

“Cecil,” he said quietly, “I'd like a quick word with you.” 

A puzzled look crossed the younger mouse's face as Gareth led him to a more private tunnel. 

“You've been a great asset to us so far, lad – you're a brilliant fighter, you're reliable, you're smart, and you keep your head in a crisis. And with Morgan now....gone....I could use a mouse like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I'm saying, lad, is that I need two deputies. You've only been on a few jobs with us so far, but you already stand out as a decent bloke with your head on straight – young men like you are hard to come by in this business. 

“This may come as a surprise, but – I'd like to have you try at being Morgan's replacement for a while. At least a month, just to see how you do. What do you say to that, eh?”

The white mouse had a stunned look on his face for a moment. He blinked, once, twice, and then a few more times. “Really?” 

“Really.”

“But – I'm new. You can't possibly trust me enough to -”

“Max was only here a week longer than you've been when I made him deputy, and he's been fightin' by my side three years now. He's yet to let me down. And if I'm right about you, lad, then you're already loyal member of the crew, even if the circumstances weren't the best when you came to us. Now, do you accept, or not?”

Cecil still had a perplexed look on his face, and indeed, the whole situation was strange, Gareth had to admit. But if he didn't name a replacement before tomorrow, he risked incurring Ratigan's ire, and Cecil looked to be a solid choice. 

“It's just a trial period?”

“Aye.”

“And if I'm not right for it?”

“So long as you don't do any permanent damage, then I'll just demote you. Mind you, your reputation'll take a beating if so, but little harm should come of it if you're careful.” It went unsaid that if he made an irreparable mistake, his future would be very short.

Cecil bit his lip. “Hm. I don't know – what would I have to do?”

“Well, you'll have to lead teams and take my directions – I'll depend on you to act for me in my place, if I'm not there – you'll have to get familiar with Max and work with him – you'll have to help deliver the weekly chore rotation – the list goes on, but you'll be learning firsthand, mostly.” Gareth paused, seeing the still-reluctant look on Cecil's face. “There are perks, too, of course. You would be allowed to sit in on certain meetings and such, and Ratigan will discuss his plans with you, Max, and me before telling the rest of the men. And,” Gareth said slyly, “You get a room all to yourself.”

Cecil perked right up at the mention of the room. The lad had likely rarely had the luxury of a bed, much less his own room. “Hm. It's just for a month?” 

“Aye.”

“And I'll be learning from you while I'm trying it out?” 

“Certainly.”

“Then I'll do it.” Cecil's face had assumed a determined expression. “I'll try to do you proud.”

“Me and Ratigan,” Gareth corrected with a smile.

“Right!” 

Gareth held out his hand. “It's a deal then? You would start tomorrow.”

Cecil took it. “Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.”

**Next Time! - Volume V: Cecil Goes to the Opera!**


End file.
